The anticipation is killing me

It's Tuesday where you are, but it's still Saturday morning (when I write the week's blogs) for me and  the weekend can't go fast enough.

Why? You may ask.

Clearly, yesterday's announcement that Special Counsel Robert Mueller has brought forth the first, in what I hope are going to be many, indictments in the Shitgibbon/Russia investigation is cause for great excitement. At this writing we don't know whose name will be listed in big bold beautiful type:


UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

vs.

PAUL MANAFORT

GENERAL MICHAEL FLYNN

JARED KUSHNER


But here's what we do know. Our Golfer in Chief is a control freak. He pens excuses letters for Donnie Jr. He feels the need to tweet at every criticism. And he gets two scoops of ice cream for dessert when everyone else gets one. You'd have a hard time convincing me that if there were election shenanigans going on with the Russkies, he'd most certainly have his tiny vulgar fingers in it.

Even if he somehow manages to squirm out of any indictments or impeachment himself, this promises to taint -- god I love that word -- his entire presidency. Because it calls into question his judgment. The astute among you know he has no judgment and yet one third of the country still swallow his horsecockery. Moreover they're convinced his presidency will go down as one of the greatest in the history books. Which is rather ironic since his loyalists don't read history books. Or, it seems, any books.

More cause for excitement? A good friend of mine, who was actually a client the first time we met (thus dispelling this notion that I hate all clients), has promised to introduce me to a small firm that is in need of some help. Best of all, this not about hawking a better butter replacement or some sugary brown fizzy water. This is about using my marginal and overly expensive ability to twist words around to actually do some good in this world.

Finally, there's the World Series. By the time you're reading this on Tuesday the whole thing could be over. Particularly if the Dodgers play sloppy and listless like they did in Game 3. What makes this World series different than all the others is that LA is playing.

You see baseball and my marriage have had a rocky relationship. Our anniversary was last week. And my wife will never let me forget how I, and half the men in attendance, missed major sections of the wedding by scurrying off to the bar at the Riviera Country Club to watch the nail biting, extra inning conclusion of Game 6 between the Blue Jays and the Braves.

This year, because the hometown is involved, I've got a pass on the excessive baseball watching. And even have my wife running around the house saying, "Los Doyers."

As if all that weren't enough, my Ryan Gosling look-a-like  handyman is bringing his crew and their sledgehammers to begin demolition work on the downstairs bathroom (see yesterday's post).

This is a lot to take for my heart.
Good thing I've been doing a lot of cardio.